


The Twist

by Natterina



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU: Warden Inquisitor, F/F, Idiots in Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Warden Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natterina/pseuds/Natterina
Summary: It is a last minute decision that changes their lives.Mahariel takes one look at the breach and knows, even now, that she is going to have to save this fucking world again.





	The Twist

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this all written out since about October 2016, but I never had the confidence to post it as I wasn't sure if it would be well received. I'm posting it now, as I haven't uploaded anything Dragon Age for a long time, and Leliana deserves some love!

_"She is in love with you."_

_"Leliana? Alistair, you are delusional."_

_"No, you're just being stubborn."_

* * *

It is a last-minute decision that changes their lives.

She has been hiding amongst the Dalish for nearly a year, far from the reaches of the left and right hand of the Divine, when she hears of the Conclave. Mahariel has spent some time working for Flemeth, in exchange for the safety of Ashalle, and she is working for the witch with no hope of attending the Conclave when Flemeth abruptly sends her through an eluvian in the Arbor Wilds. Mahariel knows they will be heading back towards Haven, Leliana and that Seeker with the scowl that she has only ever seen across corridors and from the other side of the curtains. 

So Mahariel gets to Haven first, with the full intent of surprising Leliana, her dearest friend, only to find that the two women are still en route from Kirkwall.

Justinia invites her to the Conclave nevertheless, and Mahariel might as well be royalty what with the way she is either greeted over-enthusiastically or left well alone. She leaves Justinia for the day, eager to see the changes that time has wrought on the Temple that _she_ rediscovered. Mahariel is wandering the corridors when she comes across another Dalish, a young woman barely old enough for the vallaslin. The girl jumps when Mahariel's heavy boots can be heard on the stone floor, but then continues walking down the corridor as though she belongs there. Mahariel would almost believe the ruse, if the girl didn't smell of the forests and burning wood. 

Mahariel stops her before she manages to enter the double doors at the end of the corridor, intent on sending her back to Haven, when all sensible thought is derailed at the rushing of blood in her ears. Mahariel has been hearing the Calling for weeks now, a quiet hum in the back of her skull, but the further down the corridor she walks, the louder it becomes. Beyond the smell of the outdoors and the rising buzz of the Calling, she senses a huge gathering on the other side of these doors, a dark presence not too dissimilar to being in Vigil’s Keep. But none of that can make sense because _she_ is the only Warden present at the talks. The young woman beside her is chattering away excitedly, as she has been since she realised that she was talking to the Dalish hero Mahariel, and Mahariel lifts a palm to shut her up. She makes her way slowly towards the large double doors, ears peeled as her blood _sings_.

There is definitely a Warden presence beyond the door, a mass of darkness that isn't the darkspawn lying beyond it, but it _cannot_ be true. The song in her head grows louder the closer to the door she gets, and though it has been getting louder since she entered Orlais now it seems to reach a crescendo, like the sound of drums beating against her skull.

She hears the muffled scream of a woman, and recognises immediately that it belongs to Justinia. Even with her hearing, she cannot hear what is going on beyond the heavy door, but the young woman beside her darts forward with the eagerness to help. Mahariel pulls on her hood and yanks her back, one hand slowly edging for the bow on her back.

“What are you doing? We need to help!” There is something familiar in the stubborn frown that graces her lips, in the outrage in her expression as Mahariel pulls her away from the door.

“And we will! Just, stay behind me, alright? There are Wardens beyond that door.” She flinches as the Call increases, louder with each step towards the door, and Mahariel runs towards it knowing that it will be locked. She kicks it with all the strength she has within her, and the doors fly open.

* * *

It is Cullen who recognises her first.

One of the soldiers informs him, warily, that the female elf responsible for the attack has fallen out of the fade. He follows her, the area still crackling with magic and making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Cullen pushes through the circle of soldiers congregating around the elf, and for one moment he is horrified into stillness. A hole in the sky, hundreds dead, and the Hero of Ferelden at the centre of it all. He lifts her limp body into his arms before she can be recognised, but already he hears the murmurs behind him of _Dalish elf_ , and he pushes back through the crowd to Cassandra, who is covered in soot and grime and the remains of several dozen demons. The rifts are still spitting out demons, but Cassandra lowers her sword the moment her eyes lock onto the body in his arms.

“Is she…?”

“Dead? No. But Seeker, you _must_ tell Leliana. They’re already saying Mahariel caused the explosion, if Leliana hears of this second hand…” Cullen does not need to finish his sentence for Cassandra to understand. The friendship between the left hand of the Divine and the Hero of Ferelden is nigh on legendary, and though Cullen has not known Leliana long, he has heard Leliana speak enough of Mahariel to know that her words are tinged with the bitterness of unrequited love. Justinia’s certain death alone will crush her: to hear that Mahariel is suspected of being the cause will reduce her to a hardened shell.

“Put her on a cart and into the Chantry’s cells. I will speak to Leliana.” 

Cullen does as she commands, and places her onto the cart designated solely for survivors in need of aid.

She is the only one.

* * *

_“Do you realise you have been smiling for over an hour? Since the last time you and that fool girl shot glances at each other.”_

_“Leliana and I are friends, nothing more.”_

_Morrigan’s disbelieving laughter cracks like a whip in the clearing._

* * *

When Mahariel wakes, she thinks she has been kidnapped by bandits.

Until the dark haired woman walks into the light coming off her hand, and she recognises the Right Hand of the Divine immediately. 

The interrogation lasts until Cassandra begins to shake her, one hand fisted tightly in the blue scarf at Mahariel’s neck. That is the moment Leliana steps in, but the redhead refuses to meet her gaze, and Mahariel stares at her with fear and betrayal thick in her heart. Leliana leaves as swiftly as she had entered, and Cassandra drags her to feet by the belt that runs from her shoulder to hip.

They go outside, and Mahariel releases a litany of elven curses, each one obscener than the last.

She knows, even now, that she is going to have to save this _fucking_ world again.

* * *

She wakes again, but in entirely different circumstances. She has been re-dressed, her Dalish scouting armour draped over a chair in the corner of the room, and Leliana sits on the edge of the bed at her side. The human is watching her carefully, her hood lowered and her gaze hesitant, hair pulled into a tiny ponytail at the back of her head.

“You are awake.”

It is her gaze that Mahariel craves most, and she thanks Mythal that Leliana is finally looking _at_ her. In the valley and at the temple, the bard had refused to so much as look in her direction.

She sits up slowly, her left arm aching from closing the rifts, and before she is even upright fully Leliana all but descends on her, and Mahariel finds herself engulfed by Leliana and her multiple layers.

“Oof!” Mahariel laughs as the air is knocked out of her, but brings her arms up to wrap around Leliana. “Did you miss me?”

Leliana pulls back, and she is all anger and hard lines once more.

“This isn’t _funny!_ I arrived at Haven just as the Temple exploded, only to hear everyone talking about how _The Hero of Ferelden_ had been in attendance with the Divine. And then, they found you, but they were saying you were _responsible_. Have you any idea how _terrified_ I have been?”

“You didn’t seem terrified in the valley.”

“ _No_. That is _not_ fair. All evidence pointed to you, you _know_ this.” The words are said harshly into her ear, and Leliana moves to pull away, but Mahariel keeps her grip tight. She has not seen Leliana in over a year, but has loved her since the first: she _will not_ release her now that she has her once more.

She hears Leliana calming herself down, can tell by the way her chest stops heaving and her body stills, and she releases her a moment or two later. Leliana reaches behind to pull out the band in her hair, and a second later the hood is up and the redhead has risen to her feet.

“Come, Cassandra wishes to see you in the Chantry.”

* * *

If she had felt an impossible hero after she had ended the Blight, this is inevitably _far_ worse. It might have been easier, had she been an upstart with no known history in the world. As it stands, she has saved the world from the ravages of the fifth blight, and ended it before it had ever truly begun. To the people in Haven, the people of the Inquisition, she has already saved the world once: a second time should be _easy_. 

To them she is heaven sent and a proven saviour, a leader who has already proven herself capable, and it makes her feel sick.

It is easier in the inner circle she has crafted. Varric treats her kindly, but he has lived with a hero of his own and so he treats her as though she has no reputation, and she loves it. Blackwall is almost star-struck, if she could ever ascribe the emotion to such an intimidating-looking man, and she is stuck with the mantle ‘my lady’ after the first meeting. It is meeting Blackwall that has her convinced she is suffering from an early-onset of the Calling: she cannot sense him, cannot sense the taint within him, only the loud hum of a dozen voices singing.

With Vivienne, _she_ is the one in awe. Vivienne makes her want to stand up straighter, to walk proudly, and Mahariel only prays that one day she will carry herself with as much grace as the Enchanter. She likes being around the woman: she is one of the few who expects her to prove her worth. The same goes for The Iron Bull: he expects her to do her job and do it properly, and she respects his honesty.

Cassandra is both interested in her and unwilling to _appear_ interested. Mahariel is the closest thing to Hawke that Cassandra has come across, and also the first choice of both herself and Leliana when it came to choosing a hero to lead the Inquisition. That plan has been dashed in the head since there is no Divine to appoint an Inquisitor, but Cassandra remains uncertain around her nonetheless. Hawke’s tale is known by all, bound to memory with ink and parchment, but there is no equivalent for Mahariel. No books circulate, and the year of travelling to end the Blight is a year of silence, full of rumours but no stories, no factual accounts outside of what Cassandra can pry from Leliana.

Sera is an odd one to get along with at first. She mentions Denerim during the Blight and the Friends of Red Jenny, and Mahariel asks her if she ever knew anyone who retrieved a little painted box, full of puzzles and tricks, and Sera _freaks out_. But beyond their rocky start, Mahariel finds humour in the blonde elf, and though they are by no means friends, they get along fine.

Cullen is equally odd to get along with at first: each time she sees him she remembers him bound and beaten, angry at the world and her for refusing to kill the mages. There is a part of him that is brutally ashamed of his actions that day, and he struggles to look at her in the eyes at first. Mahariel is one of only two people left alive who saw him in the worst moments, and the surprise in her eyes when she first sees him is what reminds him of that fact.

And finally, Solas. He is interesting, and Mahariel finds herself intrigued by the elf who immediately asks her if she is as ignorant as the rest of the Dalish, the elf who is surprised when she answers that she has spent too long in human lands to consider herself truly Dalish anymore. The fight leaves him at her laughing response, and they get along well. There is a moment of sadness in their early conversations, when Mahariel finds herself thinking that she simply _must_ introduce this man to Wynne, for they would get along splendidly with their ideas on spirits and Solas would find Wynne’s extended life _fascinating_ , only to remember that the woman so dear to her is dead. The red staff she gifted the mage lies in a vault in Denerim, her only keepsake of the woman. Mahariel had cried for days, running her fingers over the well-worn grooves in the wood.

She would find him attractive, in another life. Solas makes her long for simpler times, when her heart was not held by a ghoul and then trapped in the claws of a nightingale.

* * *

The Leliana that Mahariel meets in the future is both terrifying and entirely unexpected. They have gone forward a year, but Leliana looks as though she has aged ten more, and Mahariel knows immediately that their friendship and Leliana’s role as spymaster means that she will have taken the worst of the interrogations. Red lyrium infection glows beneath her skin, but unlike the others it has not spread into her eyes.

Mahariel almost wishes it had; her eyes are cold and hard and empty, and the being before her is not the Leliana she knows.

The doors to the throne room are being kicked in when Leliana turns to her, as Dorian prepares the spell behind them. Her hand wraps around Mahariel’s wrist, tight and unyielding, and she yanks her forward to meet her lips in a searing kiss. It feels as though time stops completely, and Mahariel’s stomach drops with an explosion of what can only be labelled inappropriate butterflies. It is a kiss full of relief and a sensation of the bittersweet, and Leliana releases her with a desperate look in those cold, hard eyes.

“I love you. Do not let me hide it when you return. I have felt like this since I first met you in Lothering: _do not_ let me waste any more time.”

And then Mahariel is being pulled back, dragged into range of the spell by Dorian, and she is helpless to watch as the doors burst open. The only thing stopping her from running towards Leliana is Dorian’s grip around her waist, and she can only look on as Leliana becomes riddled with arrows.

Her vision warps: Leliana falls to the floor as the world goes white with the light from Dorian’s spell, and then they are in the Throne Room again as though they had never left it in the first place. 

Alexius falls to his knees, and Mahariel loses it.

* * *

“So, the rumours are true.”

Mahariel turns from where the Inquisition soldiers are clapping mana-inhibiting manacles onto Alexius’ thin wrists, her eyes wide. Alistair storms up the steps to stand before her, resplendent in his royal clothing and huge in comparison to her. She pushes her shoulders back, matching his stony expression with one of her own, and Alistair steps close enough that she has to look up at him. The glow from the fire lights up his face; his jaw is clenched, and he smells different to how he used to. The smell of carbolic soap and peppermint oil is foreign on him, and she would laugh if it would not hurt him to know her thoughts. He's just, so  _clean_.

They stand there for a moment, him appearing angry and resolute, her appearing daring and for all the world as though she has done no wrong. The Inquisition soldiers look on, fearing that they are about to witness a shouting match between the Herald and the King of Ferelden. 

Something twitches in Alistair’s face, followed by a wicked smirk, and Mahariel starts laughing before he embraces her in a warm hug.

Fiona looks baffled, Dorian confused, and the rest of the party breathe out a sigh of relief.

“You know me, Your Majesty. Just have to be at the heart of every trouble.”

“If it were anyone else, I’d be ordering you all out of Redcliffe. Not that the mages can stay, because they can’t. Inviting magisters into Redcliffe was a _no no no no_. But we can find a way to talk about this nicely, yes?” 

Mahariel nods, and Fiona moves forward to protest, to point out that the mages deserve their own say. Alistair stops her with a raise of his hand.

“You are welcome to join us, Grand Enchanter Fiona. Just don’t expect _too_ much compassion from me.”

Fiona bows her head gently, though Mahariel can see she is biting her barbed tongue lest she be excluded altogether. There is something in the expression that she recognises, has seen before in Alistair himself.

She wishes Leliana were here: she would see what Mahariel feels she is missing.

* * *

Dorian is a _delight_. Young and vibrant with a barbed tongue, he has sarcasm and kindness in droves, the likes of which she has not seen since the death of her bond-mate. Nothing flusters him, except perhaps Bull, and she finds herself laughing whenever she pairs them both together for outings. She is watching them bicker, leaning against Solas’ hut with her arms crossed, whilst Solas pens down his studies on a writing board beside her.

“Ah, young love.” Her words are a mutter, but Solas looks up from his parchment and cocks an eyebrow.

“I hope you are not insinuating that _you_ are old, else I shudder to think of your estimation of _my_ age.” His words are said lightly, but Mahariel raises a foot to rest against the hut and looks at him closely.

“You cannot be much older than I am, surely. I turn forty-two next spring.”

Solas does not look up from his parchment. 

“I am older than I look, and that is all I shall say on the matter.”

Mahariel grins.

“Sensitive about your age? My only companions older than myself were Wynne and Oghren. And Shale, but Shale did not count.”

Solas does not miss a beat, eager as he is to change the conversation.

“If we are talking about sensitivities, may I ask why you and the Spymaster are so intent on denying your feelings for each other?”

Solas smirks when he hears her shift uncomfortably, her foot planting itself on the snow once more. His quill scratches in the silence that stretches between them.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Solas sighs.

“Do not misunderstand me; I have no vested interest, and I refused Varric when he tried to incite me into a betting pool, but your affection for one another is clear. I am struggling to understand why you both have wasted a decade concealing your feelings from each other.”

Mahariel splutters.

“Sorry, I need you to repeat that; _betting pool?_ ”

* * *

_It is Alistair who convinces her to tell Mahariel of her feelings. Leliana is eager, waiting for the moment Mahariel wakes for her turn of the night watch, when they can be afforded some sort of privacy. But an hour before the switch, the entire camp wakes to the sound of shrieks, and Leliana loses sight of her during the battle._

_It is over in minutes, but she turns to find Mahariel on the floor, cradling the head of a blighted-elf in her lap. Mahariel’s grief echoes through the camp for hours, and Leliana crushes the seed of hope burning in her chest._

* * *

“What has _happened_ to you Leliana? How can you look at this situation and think _murder_ is the answer?”

Leliana turns to look at her with anger in her eyes, and Mahariel flinches back at seeing that look on her face directed at her.

“He put our agents in danger! I am condemning one man, _one_ , to save dozens! I do not like the decision but it must be done.” Leliana crosses her arms, and Mahariel matches her stance.

“Have you _listened_ to yourself lately? You used to be a woman of honour, of kindness and ideals-“

“I cannot _afford_ ideals at a time like this!”

“Now is _precisely_ the time for ideals! Or did you forget everything that we did during the fifth blight?”

Leliana steps closer, anger and frustration set in her very bones, but Mahariel does not back away. There is an urge, beneath the anger, to kiss Leliana. But Mahariel has crushed that feeling for a decade now; it is no new sensation, and Mahariel does not falter in her argument because of it.

“Did your ideals save Harrowmont and his supporters, after you elected Bhelen to the throne? Did your ideals save those Redcliffe citizens when you _wasted_ time travelling to Kinloch Hold, desperate to save Connor? Did your _ideals_ save Loghain when Alistair took the sword from your hand and cut off his head?” Leliana’s words are harsh but to the point, but Mahariel knows how to stand her ground. The scout behind Leliana looks at them both nervously, and _miraculously_ Leliana steps away.

“You feel very strongly about this, don’t you?” Mahariel nods, once. “Very well.” Leliana instructs the scout to let Butler live, and Mahariel takes her victory with a small smile. Leliana’s glare is difficult to stomach, but once the scout is gone and the tent is relatively private, Mahariel places a hand on her shoulder.

“You don’t need to be ruthless anymore, lethallan.”

Leliana looks up at her, her face mostly obscured by the hood, and shakes her head.

“Ideals did not save Justinia. I will not lose you too.”

She boots Mahariel out of the tent a moment later.

* * *

_“You are my dearest friend, and you must promise me that you will keep in touch. Even if we meet only once a year.”_

_“Must you leave?”_

_Leliana smiles softly, sadly, and nods._

_“Nothing ties me here. And Dorothea would like to see me in Valence.”_

_Mahariel nods, too scared to speak for fear she will begin to cry, and Leliana takes her hands in her own and squeezes them tightly._

_“It is not forever, my friend. We will meet again, I am sure of it.”_

_Leliana leaves, soon to be gone from Denerim now that the Blight is over, but she is not far enough away from the room to not hear it when Mahariel clings to the balcony rail with all of her strength and weeps._

* * *

The third time she awakens after a black out, Mahariel decides that she really must stop waking up like this. Her body aches with the bruises from the avalanche’s impact, but as she goes to sit up Mother Giselle places a hand on her chest to still her.

“Hush, child. You need your rest.”

And then it is another hour, of listening to Leliana and Josephine stand off against Cassandra and Cullen, and then another where the survivors _sing_ to her and it is so Mythal-damned _awkward_ , before they finally decide to head off to the north as Solas advises. The camp prepares to leave at dawn, with Mahariel scouting ahead as far as she can (and _this_ is her natural element, alone and tracking like the Dalish hunter she is), and Leliana joins her in her tent.

Their embrace is almost desperate; Mahariel clings to Leliana, her hands fisted tightly in the material of her tabard, and Leliana holds her just as tightly, having lost her _twice_ now. There is a moment, when Leliana lags in her arms with relief, that Mahariel is reminded of the Leliana from Redcliffe, who had kissed her so eagerly and with such desperation that the thought makes her knees go weak. Her arms tighten a little bit more, and Leliana gives a soft hum before she clamps it down, and Mahariel wonders if perhaps there is some truth to it all.

She pulls back, removes her face from Leliana’s shoulder, and looks up at the younger woman. There is something there, behind the walls that Leliana has erected since the day she became the Left Hand, a pain and a longing that Mahariel recognises. Before she can open her mouth to speak, to _say_ , Cullen wanders in to inform Mahariel that they are ready to leave at her command, and the two women separate as though struck with lightning.

* * *

Things progress quickly from there on in: one moment she is in Skyhold, watching Leliana from across a courtyard as she talks with the rest of the advisors, a large smirk on her face that tells Mahariel she is about to be involved in some dangerous scheme or other. Then she is standing on the edge of the stairs, holding a sword nearly the size of her entire body, and she is being named _Inquisitor_.

And then, with barely a moment to breathe in between, she is whisked away from Skyhold and suddenly the length of her time away from Skyhold becomes greater than her time spent there, and she barely has time to take it all in. She is Warden, Warden-Commander, and Inquisitor, and beneath it all is roar in her ears that she cannot avoid, the approach of the Calling that grows louder with each day.

She feels she is heading for a fitting end; to leave for her Calling as she goes to take over the Orlesian Wardens.

Leliana corners her in the war room one day, slamming her papers onto the table and scattering pins as she rears the full force of her anger and directs it at Mahariel.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mahariel flinches as Cullen and Josephine leave the room, leave her to Leliana’s _mercy_ , as though the woman doesn’t look ready to skin her alive.

“It didn’t seem important.”

“Important? You thought you were going through the _Calling_ , and you did not think it important to tell me? What were you going to do? Would you have slunk off in the night towards the Deep Roads?”

Mahariel recoils at her anger, but Leliana is standing there looking entirely too brittle for the rage that emanates from her, and Mahariel shakes her head vehemently.

“I would never do that to you. I would have _told_ you had it gotten worse-“

“You did not even tell me it had _started!_ You thought you were going to die, and you would have just  _left_ me here-” Leliana pauses, clenches her fists tightly by her side, and leans heavily against the table. “I cannot lose you, Lyna.” In what seems to be the blink of an eye, Leliana relaxes, sagging into the table as Mahariel moves closer. There are tears in her eyes that she will not shed, and the sight of Leliana reduced to this make _Mahariel’s_ eyes fill up. She pulls Leliana to her, and feels the other woman’s hands gripping tightly at her shoulders. The grip is almost crushing, but Mahariel would not move even if Corypheus himself appeared in the room.

“I am sorry, _lethallan_. The reason I came to Haven in the first place was to, to tell you. And I will tell you, if it gets any worse. I shouldn’t have kept it from you.” The tiniest of sobs leaves Leliana’s lips, a tearless sound that nevertheless grips at Mahariel’s heart, and the redhead buries her face into Mahariel’s collar.

A moment later and Leliana has let go of Mahariel, and she straightens with such poise that Mahariel wonders if she has been getting lessons from Vivienne. Leliana’s hand twitches in mid-air, as though reaching for Mahariel’s hand, before it falls between them and she leaves in a flurry of cold and anger.

Mahariel follows a minute later, and if Josephine gives her an exasperated look as she does, she pays it no heed.

* * *

_They stand on one of the many balconies at Denerim’s palace, watching the lone rider disappear through the city gates and down along the path. The sun is barely rising, but Leliana must leave as early as possible if she is to reach Amaranthine by evening. The King, in his finest clothing, and his Court Mage, leaning slightly on a lovely red staff etched with Dalish markings, sigh into the gentle breeze._

_“Did one of them at least say_ something _?”_

_Wynne shakes her head._

_“Not a word.”_

* * *

Adamant is going to be a mess, a brutal cock-up that she knows is going to go bad before they’ve even started transporting the siege equipment. Stroud informs her that the Calling is brought on by Corypheus, that she is not the only one to hear it, but he assures her that she should not succumb any time soon. 

There is also, he warns, several Ferelden Wardens amongst Clarel’s ranks. One of her subordinates, travelling in the Frostbacks just as the false Calling began, had returned to Amaranthine to warn the rest of her Order. Without her there to guide them, several had gone to Orlais to investigate. Mahariel cusses and swears and wishes for the chance to rip out Erimond’s throat when she hears the news.

Once inside, however, she has an advantage.

“As Warden-Commander of Ferelden I am _ordering_ you to stand down! We are here to stop Clarel, not to kill Grey Wardens. My authority is the same as Clarel’s: If you fall back, you will _not_ be disobeying orders!”

Miraculously, a majority of them _do_ , the surviving warriors and rogues leave without any fighting, and some even join her. She suspects those that do are the ones from Ferelden, but she does not recognise their faces.

In the main hall, it is the same situation.

“Clarel! Remind me again why Ferelden would not let you bolster my garrison with Orlesian wardens? Because they feared the lengths you would go, how far you would go to gain power. And here you are, proving Ferelden and the rest of Thedas _right_. If you do this, you do exactly what Erimond wants.”

Erimond steps forward before Clarel can open her mouth, and speaks _for_ her.

“What, fighting the Blight? A way to keep the world safe from Darkspawn? Who wouldn’t want that? So the ritual requires blood magic: hate me for that if you will, but do not try to stop your order from doing its duty.” And he is cocky and so certain of himself, and Mahariel wishes to send an arrow to his face.

“Hold your tongue, Magister! I speak to Clarel as a fellow Commander of the Grey, not to _you_. We are Wardens, Clarel; we fight honourably, to keep the world safe! Show me where the honour lies in slaughtering your own men and raising armies of _demons_!”

“We are making the sacrifices no one else will, _that_ is why we exist. Our warriors will die proudly for a world that will never thank them.” Clarel is quieter than Mahariel remembers, and she wants to smack the woman senseless.

“The world will not thank you, Clarel, because you unleashed an army of demons onto it! And once you have done that, your Magister friend here will bind the mages to Corypheus! You are desperate to escape the Calling and end all future blights, but if the darkspawn can’t reach those cells, _you never will_.”

“Corypheus is dead, Mahariel!” Clarel falters as she speaks, despite her words, and her hesitation plays out across her face as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Bring it through.”

The rift in front of them ripples as Clarel turns her focus to it, and Mahariel steps forward with Stroud right behind her.

“Many of you do not know me personally, but you have _all_ heard of me. I stopped the fifth blight: I understand exactly _why_ you feel the need to do this. But it is _wrong_. We are Wardens, we become who we are to fight the darkspawn with _honour_ and integrity: we do not ally ourselves with blood mages and throw all common sense to the wind, we do not negotiate with demons, and we _never_ raise our blade against a fellow warden. As Warden-Commander of Ferelden I tell you that you have nothing to fear from me: you will face no harm from the Inquisition, and I _order_ all Ferelden Wardens to _stand down_. The rest of you, you are being used and you _know_ it.”

One man steps forward, his steps hesitant but his face determined, and he nods his head at her.

“The mages, they’re not right, not anymore. They are like puppets on strings, Commander.” He keeps hold of his sword, but the man behind him lowers his own and steps towards her. Mahariel recognises this one as one of her earliest recruits.

“The Ferelden Wardens will stand down, Commander. Unless you want us to help you fight?” This is said with a small raise of the brow that sends relief shuddering through her body, and she gives him a sharp nod. Roughly twelve Wardens separate from the crowd before her and stand behind her instead, and she wants to just ship them off back to Amaranthine where it is _safe_. 

The first warden who had spoken looks behind him at his comrades, and several move to join him at the front. All warriors or rogues, not a single mage amongst them, and Clarel panics.

“Do not let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!”

“He is not the one afraid, Clarel, _you_ are! You and I both know that if the First Warden hears of this, he will put you down like a _dog_. You are afraid that you have ordered these brave men and women to die for _nothing_.”

And then like a switch being flipped, Clarel senses the change in the atmosphere and realises she is in the centre of a coup unfolding before her, as her Wardens choose to believe the Ferelden Commander over the Orlesian. Whether it is fear or an epiphany that gives her the change of heart, she nevertheless backs down.

And all hell breaks loose.

* * *

Outside of the fade, the Nightmare defeated and Stroud long gone, the senior Warden at Adamant turns to her as the flagstones cool down, with fear and uncertainty on his face.

“Warden-Commander, without Stroud, we have no one of any rank left. _You_ are the surviving senior warden. What do we do now?”

And that is what sparks what seems to be an endless war between Cassandra and Mahariel, as Mahariel wishes to keep the order intact, and Cassandra longs to see them gone to the wind. Mahariel accurately points out that she cannot exile them without exiling herself, but to keep them in Orlais near Corypheus _also_ seems a terrible idea.

To the disapproving glares of both Cassandra and Solas, Mahariel makes the decision to send as many of the Wardens as she can to Vigil’s Keep. They will be far enough away from Corypheus that they _should_ be safe, and whilst they are there she can send Sigrun instructions to ask their friend in the Deep Roads some very vital questions about Corypheus. Those that cannot go to Vigil’s Keep will remain at Adamant, at the beck and call of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

It is a decision she mulls over multiple times on the return trip to Skyhold, but she is reasonably certain that the non-mages can be trusted, and she is not about to hand them over to the mercy of Weisshaupt and their corrupted First Warden. 

She hates Weisshaupt, with its cold towers and empty halls, and the huge mausoleum built to honour the slayers of the Archdemons. She has made the mistake of going inside it once, only to find a giant plaque, one-third full with inscriptions, attached to an empty tomb bearing her name in the spot reserved for the slayer of the fifth Archdemon. She has had no experience more grounding and terrifying than seeing her own empty tomb, waiting for her corpse to arrive.

No, she will send no man to Weisshaupt whilst Vigil’s Keep still holds a court.

The first thing she does on her return to Skyhold is to instruct Josephine to send a sapling tree to Clan Lavellan. She wishes to honour the poor young woman who had, by chance, been stood behind her rather than in front of her when they searched the corridor of the temple. Everything that woman may have become is gone, taken from her in an instant because Mahariel chose to attend the conclave, and she honours her fellow Dalish with another separate tree planted by the gate in the courtyard.

When she returns to her room Leliana is there, pacing and agitated, and Mahariel does not wish to prod the viper in her nest. Leliana whirls on her the moment she is up the stairs, and for a moment she is looking at the Leliana of ten years past, the one who displayed her fear on her face as clearly as she does now.

“You! If I have to go out there into the field to stop you from making these _fool_ decisions, I will!”

Mahariel leans against the bannister, refusing to bend under the gaze of her spymaster, and frowns.

“Is this about sending the Wardens to Vigil’s Keep? Because-“

“ _No_!” Leliana’s voice rises then, full of indignation. “This is about you falling from the top floor of Adamant, using your anchor to open a rift into the fade, and then using that rift to transport yourself _physically_ into it!” 

Leliana stops her pacing as the words leave her, and Mahariel dares to take a step closer to her.

“I have always been this reckless, Leliana.”

“Yes, and it was not easy then either. But you are…” She stops herself, startled, and starts again. “You are all I have left, and I cannot lose you too. How many times do I need to tell you this?” Her hood has fallen back in the midst of her pacing, and Mahariel narrows her eyes at her words.

“What were you going to say?” Leliana steps closer as Mahariel speaks, and she remembers once again the words of the Leliana in Redcliffe. But Leliana throws an emotional wall up so high that the dwarves would be impressed, and Mahariel feels the woman pulling back. Leliana goes to move past her, and Mahariel decides that she has had enough.

Her hand darts out to grab Leliana’s bicep, but the Nightingale is faster, and Mahariel finds her hand being gripped with such force that she releases her hold, and Leliana uses the pain in her hand to force her to her knees. The pressure releases as the mark glows green, and then all Mahariel can hear is steel boots on stone stairs and the sound of her door slamming shut.

* * *

_The fire flickers gently before them, the wood popping occasionally, as Wynne looks at Mahariel with a small smile on her lips._

_“Amaranthine is not far, my dear.”_

_Mahariel holds the letter in between two fingers, and waves it sarcastically. “It might as well be another world away.”_

_Wynne’s smile turns sympathetic, and Mahariel curls further into the plush red armchair.She feels lost and floundering, all of her companions scattered to the four winds, and loneliness is a bitter thing when Wynne and Alistair are too busy with court to spend much time with her. She has gone from the constant companionship of her clan, to the close companionship of their ragtag group, to alone and uncertain of where to go next. She cannot disobey the orders in her hand, and yet she knows that if she were to flee to her clan, the Warden’s would likely never find her._

_She is stuck in between, unable to return to her clan and face that life without her bondmate. She is unwilling to go to Amaranthine, to be a Warden-Commander without Alistair and the rest of her group at her side. She wishes she had gone with Leliana to Valence, but knows their friendship would not have lasted much longer with her feelings as powerful as they are._

_“When will you leave?”_

_“Tonight.” Mahariel straightens, her smile wry. “I see better in the dark anyway, and Amaranthine is only half a day’s journey.”_

_“I’m sure we will see each other soon, and I am always here if you should need me.” Wynne gets to her feet, Mahariel following, and envelopes the younger woman in a warm embrace. Mahariel smiles into her shoulder, though her eyes are sad and her heart aches._

_ It is the last time that she sees Wynne. _

* * *

Mahariel is covering her hand and wrist with a cold wet towel, praying the mark will _stop lighting up_ , when she turns to see Cole sitting on the edge of her bed. She shrieks.

“What did you do to her?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything! Sweet Mythal, I think she’s broken some of my fingers. How's the Inquisitor meant to close rifts with broken fingers, bet she didn't think of _that_.” Mahariel pulls the cloth tight around her hand with her teeth, her right hand useless in this, and Cole cocks his head at her in curiosity.

“Her hair is red in the firelight; since when did I start looking forward to seeing her every morning? The Nightingale sings her song in your language, and the world changes. You are in love with her.” Something in the way Cole says it reminds her of Alistair, a decade earlier with the same wonder in his face. But Alistair had witnessed an innocent interaction between friends: Cole has the unfortunate ability to see right through her.

“Yes, Cole.”

“Why don’t you tell her? She loves you too.”

“We’ve been friends for over ten years, Cole. If she loved me, I think I would know.”

Cole frowns at her.

“But you do know. She told you herself. She doesn’t want to tell you because she doesn’t want to lose you, but you’re both making it worse.”

Mahariel stills at the wash basin, her hand resting in the cold water as she processes Cole’s words. His gaze does not falter as she stares at him from across the room, but he nods eagerly.

“Yes, that’s a good idea. It will stop the hurt.”

* * *

Mahariel asks Cole where Leliana is, and after she gets her answer she sends him away, only to realise that for some _unknown_ reason, she has no idea where Leliana’s room is.

She calls him back: he smiles brightly and simply says: “below.” And then he is gone again, and Mahariel is left to wonder why Leliana’s room is below hers in the tower, without her ever knowing it.

Mahariel descends the creaking wooden steps as quickly as she dares, but reaches the hallway only to see it branching into two separate bedrooms. The one on the right has the door open; it is filled with bright tapestries and lovely flowers, a proper lady’s room, and Mahariel surmises that it must be Josephine’s. She tries the handle on the left door, and finds it locked.

She kneels before it, lockpick in her hand, and is just about to insert the first one in the keyhole when the handle clicks and the door swings open. Leliana looks down at her, one eyebrow raised and an unimpressed look on her face.

“Picking the door? Really? It was unlocked.”

Mahariel stands, dusting off her knees as she does, and pushes past Leliana into the room.

“I cannot do this any longer.” At Mahariel’s words, Leliana crosses her arms, kicking the door shut with her foot. 

“Do what? Are you saying we cannot be friends?” Her voice is pitched again, indignation clear, and Mahariel shakes her head. Her hands are sweating, even with one wrapped in the towel, and Mahariel could swear that her heart is beating hard enough for Leliana to hear. She steels herself, straightens her posture, and puts the full force of her gaze on Leliana.

“No. I am done pretending that I am not hopelessly in love with you.”

For a moment, she thinks that the twelve-year wait has been _worth it_ to see Leliana look so utterly and completely stunned. She is shocked into silence.

Mahariel holds her breath, and waits.


End file.
